A few months ago, K Hanna Korossy hosted an auction to help out a fellow writer. The auction was a huge success, and we appreciate everyone's bids!!

This is my auction fic. Thank you so much to sendintheclowns, who made a very generous contribution!

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I just borrow without permission on occasion.
Beta: The amazing Jules.
Warnings: None, except for a little language. Set in between ELAC and Bloodlust, all the way back in S2. Spoilers are sold seperately.

"Are you sure we're on the right street?" Stuart asked his wife for the fifteenth time.

"Yes, I'm sure. The sign said 'Maple', and here we are, on Maple."

Stuart rolled his eyes and simply smiled affectionately at his wife, Kim. Her once blonde hair now had a healthy silver streak, whereas his head was entirely covered by gray now, but their matching set of blue eyes still sparkled with mischief. They had been married for thirty-six years, and still loved every minute.

So instead of continuing to argue, he smiled again and maneuvered their cherry-red Ford Escape around the tight knit, uptown neighborhood. As they rounded a gentle curve in the street, their destination came into view.

"Aha! See? I told you."

"Yeah, Kim, you told me. Too bad we drove a couple miles on Maple before we found it."

The light bickering carried on as Stuart pulled the SUV around in a tight u-turn, then parallel parked next to a large, two-story house. Kim whistled as they both climbed out of the vehicle, impressed by the large, Victorian style manor with the expansive garden.

In front of the home set neatly in the trimmed green grass stood several tables and racks; all covered with various types of clothes, toys, and jewelry trees. Every table had the prices marked clearly; most of it was going pretty cheap.

"That's one of the things I love about you," Stuart stated with pride as he wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "You and your obsession with yard sales."

"Yeah, well you can't beat some of the neat things I've saved a ton of money on, things that would cost a bundle in fancy stores. Things people are just willing to throw away."

Fumbling with the keys to open their own, two-story crowded townhouse, Kim sighed as she remembered the beautiful house they had spent the afternoon at. She had loved browsing through the woman's things, items that were very well cared for and were in excellent condition. The retired real estate agent had cheerfully shared a brief history of each purchase; even being able to tell which country she had purchased it in.

"I'm so glad this thing came with paper," her husband said as he came up behind her. Grabbing the keys from her overflowing hands, he flashed a dimpled grin as he easily opened the door.

"Yeah, Polaroid doesn't make these cameras anymore." Though Kim's arms were full of bags of tiny knickknacks and a few new shirts, her husband had only found one item. An old camera that looked like it was from the 80's, one that took instant pictures that printed within seconds. The owner had eagerly parted with the item, wishing them the best of luck. They had pondered over the statement on the long trip home, but had dismissed it quickly when their house came into view.

"Well, let's try this sucker out," Stuart said excitedly as soon as his wife had set the bags down. "Go ahead and pose over by the dresser, and we'll just give it a shot."

As his wife stood by the dresser, Stuart made sure the flowers were centered in the background and the paper was loaded correctly. "Say daiquiri!"

Smiling and proclaiming her favorite drink, she barely flinched as the flash burned small bright circles into her retinas. "Well?"

Stuart pulled the square picture from the ejection slot. Before handing it off to his wife, he studied it and frowned. "This can't be right. What the hell is this??"

"What's wrong?" she asked nervously. They hadn't paid that much for the camera but he had been so excited about it, she hoped it didn't have any defects.

His frown deepened as he handed the picture to Kim. Her eyes widened and one hand flew to her mouth as she dropped the large print. It fluttered harmlessly to the ground and was promptly disregarded.

Wrapping a comforting arm around his wife's shoulders, Stuart whispered softly, "It's alright honey, no harm, it's a simple prank camera, that's all."

"What a horrible prank."

Promising he would dispose of the camera first thing in the morning, he urged his wife to start dressing for bed. With a disgusted frown, he swept the picture underneath the bed.

:.:..:.:

The technician at the front desk looked bored as he picked at his gnawed-off fingernails. The tall figure draped in a simple black suit approaching the front desk grimaced as he watched the man pull something from underneath his thumbnail and sniff at it. Before the young man could place the delectable object in his mouth, the visitor cleared his throat.

Looking guilty, the tech dropped his fingers below the desk and out of view. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to see a homicide victim brought in yesterday." Bringing a sheet of paper into view, the man pursed his lips and clicked his tongue as he searched for the name. "K. Lakerson."

"Can I see some I.D.?"

Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulled a small folded leather wallet and flicked it open. As the small gold badge tumbled into view, the technician's eyes widened.

"Detective Dean Simon…dude…FB-freakin'-I?"

Snapping the wallet closed, the agent shoved it back in his pocket with an impatient gesture. "I'm in a bit of a hurry, can we move this along?"

"Sure man, no problem. But you may need this." The tech handed over a small blue medical style mask and a small jar of Vicks VapoRub. At the rise of the investigator's eyebrow, the tech explained: "We just brought in an old lady who was found dead in her apartment, we estimated she died about three months ago."

Staring at the kid with disbelief, but taking the hint, Dean helped himself to a thick dose of the Vicks on his upper lip and placed the mask over his mouth and nose before making his way through the double-locked doors.

Dean could detect the faint smell of rotting, decayed flesh when he entered the room, and found himself thankful for the burning, medicinal presence of the Vicks. He could only imagine what the smell would be like without the sharp scent of menthol and eucalyptus to mask it, and the thought wasn't pleasant. Finding an older man bent over an occupied table, Dean stepped up right beside him. "Doctor."

"Ah, Detective Simon, I hope Leon didn't give you too much trouble."

"No, he was pretty helpful." Dean gestured to the mask. "I appreciate you meeting with me."

"Any way I can help." Doctor Fuhrman was calmly wrist deep in a woman's chest, pulling various organs from her body and placing them on a small scale. "Normally I don't allow for an audience, but as you stated this is a special case?"

"You bet it is. That the picture?" Contrary to their usual streak of luck, they were able to get their hands on the actual object even though it was a primary piece of evidence. The family had gotten a hold of the camera, and the doctor had been able to obtain a copy of the photograph.

The grisly black and white copy couldn't hide the cruelness of a life cut short. It was a picture of Kim Lakerson, taken supposedly ibefore/i she fell down the stairs. The shot captivated the frozen look of horror on her face that must have formed mid-air over the top of the stairs as she realized she was heading face first. Her neck had broken before she hit the landing, mercifully killing her quickly.

The husband's story was he had bought the Polaroid camera that day, and had taken a picture of his wife in front of their dresser. Instead of her smiling face, a portrait of her twisted body had developed instead. Anyone else looking at the print would have thought he took it after he found her body. He swore he had thrown the picture underneath their bed after taking it, and hadn't gotten up again until the alarm went off the next morning. That was when he had found his beloved wife at the bottom of the stairs, an empty glass lying at the top of the stairs and a broken dish lying at her feet, shattered porcelain littering every stair in between.

She had tripped on a tear in the carpet, one he had promised to fix last week.

Dean frowned and handed the photo back. "And they're trying to pin the death on the husband?"

"Yeah, but I'm going to rule this as accidental. The skin on her left foot is abraded, suggesting that the carpet scratched it. There are no bruises indicating she was pushed, and I found remnants of a matter with the consistency of cake in her stomach, giving her husband's story credit. He insists she had quite the sweet tooth, and would often get up in the middle of the night for a snack."

"Thanks Doc, we'll definitely be in touch."

"No problem Detective. Now all you have to do is figure out why the sick man took a picture of his wife after her death."

Dean gave a quick smile behind the mask and nodded, then quickly turned to leave.

Once he was back inside the reception area, he took off the mask and tossed it in the small bin. Grabbing a small white Kleenex from the box on Leon's desk, he removed the VapoRub from his lip.

"Pretty gross, huh?" Leon said without looking up from his magazine.

"You have no idea."

.:.:.:.

Sam made his way down the sloping cement stairs, turning to give one last wave to the man who had been so helpful.

Thomas Lakerson had willingly handed over the responsible camera to the private inspector hired to find out what had happened to his brother's wife. The police had given the camera back to the family, interested in only the picture of Kim Lakerson, one they believed had been taken after she died.

He carefully held the camera close to his side, keeping well away from the shutter release. That's all he'd need, to flash a picture of himself; some things were better not knowing. After having considered it for about two seconds, Sam decided he really didn't need to know how he was going to die.

Wondering how his older brother was doing at the morgue as he briskly headed down the street, his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar ringtone.

"Find out anything?"

"People freakin' reek when they die."

"Yeah, well that's a given. What did you find out about our corpse?"

"Oh come on Sammy, I thought we agreed this one was all yours. You have been a little lonely lately."

"Dean."

"Alright, untwist your panties. The coroner is going to declare her death as an accident, 'cause there were no signs of foul play. Did you get the camera?"

"Yeah, they gave it up pretty easy. Are you on your way back to the hotel?"

"Yeah, I'll see you there."

.:.:.:.

Sam had just made it to the hotel when Dean pulled up in their borrowed, rusted beater. Ellen just happened to have this piece of junk stashed behind the Roadhouse, and after a few hours of tinkering with it Dean had it ready to go.

Little had they known, the Oldsmobile was on its last legs, not able to go any faster than 55mph. It had been a long drive.

Not only had the sputtering, coughing engine slowed their progress, the silence of a dead radio had been deafening. Instead of the music and laughter that usually blasted from the Impala, an uncomfortable stillness had grated across the stained maroon interior. The tension had started at Bobby's after their little discussion, and that had probably been Sam's fault. He knew his closing line in their little moment would hit home, and he was pretty sure it did.

"I miss him man…and I feel guilty as hell. I'm not alright, not at all."

A quick pause, the words had been hard to grasp.

"But neither are you, that much I know."

Sam wasn't sure what he had tried to accomplish by going out into the yard that final time. It had been tough to watch Dean spend his days buried beneath the undercarriage of the Impala, alone, painstakingly restoring every little nut and bolt ruined from the demon driven semi that had nearly taken all of their lives. He had meant to go out and clear the air, but the expression on Dean's face as he'd turned to leave told him things just got a whole helluva lot worse.

After the last word was spoken, it had only taken a few seconds, and he had only just reached the porch to Bobby's, when he heard the first shatter of the crowbar against metal. Poking his head back around the corner of the house, he remembered his breath catching in his throat as he spied Dean taking out an unknown amount of pent up aggression upon the one thing he prized the most.

It was a sight that would haunt Sam for years.

So this small hunt had come at a perfect time. Dean was almost done with the Impala, but he hadn't worked on it in the past two days. A bit of body work, rebuilding the front passenger side wheel well, and reattaching the grill, and the Impala would be drivable again.

Seeing Dean's pause in progression, and the new trunk lid, had Sam convinced they needed this hunt more than ever. For once their luck was turning and it was a simple job after all.

Jerking at the tie constricting his neck once he was inside the room, Sam turned to face the door as his weary sibling entered, his own tie already loose around his neck.

"Honey, I'm home," Dean muttered as he headed straight for the bathroom.

"Dude, what the hell is that smell?"

Dean stopped, and spun around slowly. "Oh, you mean the remaining smell of rotting old lady? Or the pound of this vapor crap I had to use to disguise the smell?"

"Man, both. You smell like a rotting medicine cabinet."

Dean smirked. "Real nice." He headed towards the bathroom, ready to wash the stench away. "You get the camera?"

"Yeah. And our research was right, it was Sarah Knowles' camera."

Sarah Knowles had been a naive seventeen-year-old, intent on running away with her boyfriend in the late 1980s. She had jumped in the passenger seat of his Camero, never to be heard from again. The only thing that had been found had been her camera, a Polaroid Square Shooter, which had only contained a picture of her body. They had never even found the boyfriend.

They figured she was a harmless spirit, only needing to warn those of their impending deaths. They couldn't put her to rest, since her body had never been found, but they could destroy the camera.

"So did you do it?" Dean asked as he stepped from the bathroom, a towel settled on his shoulders as he reached for his bag. Coming up with the desired bottle of soap, he waited for Sam's answer before returning to the bathroom.

"No, I thought I'd wait until you got back."

Turning slightly, a look of confusion on his face, Dean asked, "Do you need me to hold your hand?"

Face burning slightly from the retort, Sam took a deep breath. "I just figured destroying this girl's camera might require backup. You never know how her spirit is going to react."

Face dropping into a scowl, Dean stormed towards the bathroom. "Just freakin' do it already," he muttered before slamming the door.

Twenty minutes later, the older hunter emerged from the bathroom in a steamed halo of Axe, the one thing he allowed himself to splurge on. His short energy burst from the renewing shower was cut short when he found his sibling seated at the room's single table, camera placed defiantly in front of him.

"Dude."

Sam shook his head. "Why are you so fired up about finishing this hunt?"

"I have a car to get back to. Why the hell are you so determined to be such a nitpicky little bitch? All you have to do is smash the damn thing and we'll be outta here."

Giving a scoff of annoyance and biting slightly at his lower lip, Sam decided he'd had enough. "You know, that's another thing that's been bothering me. Ever since our little talk when we had to ditch the van, you've been determined to be an asshole. You've got me on a real short string, and I want to know why."

"It's shit like this, Sam. I ask you to simply destroy the camera, so we can move on with our lives. Yet here you sit, determined to turn this into a Dr. Phil moment."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to, if you'd just be honest with me."

Dean tipped his head down, bared his teeth and glared angrily at Sam through his lowered brows. A classic Dean expression that meant Sam was on the verge of making the bull charge. "We've already had this discussion Sam, and I'm not going to repeat myself. So help me God, if you turn this into a Dad issue I will lay you out right now."

"I meant what I said, Dean, neither of us is even close to being fine, and I just want you to let me help you."

"I don't need your help. I'm dealing with this shit my own way; I thought you were going to get the hell off my back."

"Does that way include a crowbar?"

Dean hesitated, his expressions creating a kaleidoscope of doubt and pain to run across his tired facade. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I saw you put the hole in the trunk, man." Sam tried to soften his voice, while still adding a streak of stubbornness. He wasn't going to let this go.

"Well tell me then, did you enjoy the show?"

"That's not what I meant, Dean."

"Oh really? By the sounds of it, you were just watching me, waiting for me to snap so you could bring it up in an "I told you so" moment."

"Do you even know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"I'm thinking it was no less ridiculous than this hunt."

Sam scoffed, and stood up slowly. "Did you or did you not agree with me that this sounded like a valid hunt, that we both needed something to get us out of Bobby's for a while?"

"That's before I knew all of the facts, Sammy-boy."

"And what facts would that be?"

"That you found some lame, bullshit excuse to have us driving across two states in a broken down piece of crap car, just to check out something that probably isn't even a hunt at all. For all we know, it could be a huge coincidence, and you just wanted to get me out here so you could harp on me some more."

"Wow Sherlock, did you just come up with that?" The bitterness in Sam's voice equally matched the fire in Dean's eyes as both brothers squared off across the room. "And I thought in our line there was no room for coincidences."

"That's not the point Sam. I'm just finally able to see the real reason why you don't want to destroy this camera: once we get back to Bobby's you'll no longer have my undivided attention. You can't try to wear me down when I'm underneath that car. That's the only reason you brought me out here, and I'm getting pretty damn sick of you trying to fix me all the damn time."

"You don't need to be fixed Dean, I just want to try to help you."

"And I keep telling you to back off! I don't need your help, or any body else's. If you know what's good for you, you'll listen to what I'm trying to fucking tell you."

Sam stood in stunned silence, his heartbeat erratically passing the moments by. "Why won't you let me help you?" He knew he was beginning to sound like a broken record, but his helplessness made him desperate. He was losing Dean, and he had no idea how to stop it.

"If this is the best way you've got to help me, by dragging me to some forsaken town with a busted hunt and victims that aren't even in trouble, then I don't need your brand of help."

Sam allowed defeat to crumble his resolve; Dean wasn't leaving him any openings. The desperation he'd been feeling the past month almost double, widening the cold fissure in his chest.

"This was not a busted hunt, Dean." Sam gestured to the camera.

"Oh it's not?" In a moment of pure need to prove Sam wrong, Dean grabbed the camera and held it at an arms length away from his body. Flipping a middle finger, Dean clicked the button and felt a cold wave go through him as the flash bolted through the room.

Not realizing until it was too late what Dean was about to do, Sam dove forward in just enough time to catch the picture as he reached out to swat the camera.

Rearing back, he glared angrily at the older hunter. "I can't believe you just did that! What the hell were you thinking?"

Dean shrugged and dropped the camera onto the table. "So how does it look?"

Sam dropped his angry glare to the still-developing print. As the picture came slowly into view, Sam's color suddenly drained from his face. His jaw dropped as the print fell from his numb fingers. Just as quickly as the color had disappeared, his face was taken over by a sickly green tint. Diving for the door, Sam rushed outside without saying another word.

Suddenly overwhelmed by a sick feeling himself, Dean bent down to retrieve the photograph. Flicking it between his fingers, his hazel eyes tracked until they focused on the shot. Feeling his own stomach drop through his feet, he tossed the picture onto the worn yellow table.

Angrily, he grabbed the camera and twisted around. Without losing momentum, he swung the camera into the wall, watching in satisfaction as it burst into a million pieces of cursed oblivion.

Dropping his head in regret, he headed for the door to find his brother and do some damage control. As he passed by the table, he snatched the picture up and placed it safely in his back jeans pocket.

:..:.:..

It ached so bad he could hardly stand it. He was flying on autopilot, unable to stop his actions even if he wanted to.

The one person in his life, the one person that was his life, was gone. Ripped away so cruelly by the one thing they had spent their whole life looking for.

Shaking fingers determinedly put the box together, not for one second thinking of how this was going to end. Taking a moment to pause, he ran his fingers along the top part of the trunk. Finding the faded photograph he had stashed there months ago, he pulled it out. He had told Sam he'd destroyed this print, and that it was never going to happen. He was sure that eventually Sam had forgotten about the print; it had seemed pretty far-fetched at the time.

Dean had remembered as soon as they found out about the hellhounds. Demonic pitbulls, Sam had said. Their victims had been torn apart, just as Dean appeared in the picture.

Where his cocky smirk and his middle finger should have been, there was a whole different picture.

His own face stared back at him, eyes wide open and unseeing. The camera had panned out enough to show the carnage: his body torn beyond recognition. He would die in someone's living room, which was a fucking joke to be sure, bleeding all over the Martha Stewart area rug that covered a darkly stained floor.

Just like the victims in Mississippi, Dean was pretty sure he was headed for death by hellhound.

But one part of the photograph mattered, the whole reason he was here. It looked as though someone had taken the shot over his brother's shoulder, Sammy's shoulder.

Sam was cradling him, even though he himself appeared dead.

Taking a deep breath and sending a silent apology to Sam, Dean finished preparing the box. Slamming the trunk, the elder Winchester allowed the sound to reverberate through him, allowing it to be the final nail in his coffin.

Taking one more deep breath, he headed toward the center of the crossroads.

Hope you guys enjoyed.